


God's Avenger

by Pariahrogue



Series: The Punisher Saga [1]
Category: Marvel, Punisher
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-29 20:37:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6392815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pariahrogue/pseuds/Pariahrogue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank goes to Church for a little talk with a priest and gets more than he bargains for. ***Not Canon***</p><p>Also, names of certain characters have been changed due to lack of originality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	God's Avenger

DISCLAIMER: Although I’m not going to be explicit, only mentioned briefly, this story is dealing with controversial issues such as abuse in the Catholic Church. If you object to the subject matter, please do not read. Thank you. Also, I'm new here and I don't know how to make chapters.

It’s funny how people interpret God nowadays, like God is some mellow cosmic being wanting people to love each other, seeing him as an all powerful hippie. Or have people go around proclaiming in His name that gays are responsible for the deaths of soldiers. Both views go in different directions of what God is. Don’t get me wrong. God can be loving, and He loves His creations, but He can also be vengeful. Especially to those who do wrong to undeserving people. He has the angels for a reason, a valid reason, to protect His people on a preternatural plane of existence. They are winged soldiers, remember, and not fluffy, overfed cherubs on a Hallmark card. They were created for battle, for defending.

I should know. I am Michael, the foremost of God’s angelic host. For theological reasons, we angels can’t interfere with the realm of man. Neither can God. So on occasion, when times are dark, a mortal is blessed --or cursed as some may see it--with the darker aspect of God. If you doubt God has a dark side, go read the Old Testament. It’s full of infanticides and other nasty deeds that I don’t particularly agree with.

But I’m wandering off the path that I intended to tread. As I said, we angels are not supposed to interfere with assuring that true justice is achieved for those people who slip through the cracks, the ones who cry out for help...but are refused the blood debt due them by circumstances beyond ordinary control. Fate, corrupt officials...whatever the case may be. 

There were a few people touched by the war grace of God: St. Joan of Arc, Roland. Now, Frank Castle. He owned a strength almost unheard of, and an inability to compromise on what was right and wrong. That fascinated me. He fascinated me. 

I reached out to him during the Firebase Valley Forge camp--and gave him what he needed to survive. I found a will in him, like steel, to do what was needed when others lacked morality and true grit. In short, when a warrior who saw life in terms of black and white arose, with a firm vision on how to treat people who took violent advantage of others. By treating those with the edge of a sharp sword and put a permanent end to their villainy. To my way of thinking, the second a human raises his hand against another in a deliberately cruel manner. 

What? You thought darkness had claimed his soul? Hardly. Lucifer wants evil people to live, to spread their corruption through untouched souls, to harvest more in time. Lucifer is all about the long run, and he’s willing to wait. 

No one is safe from his malevolence. Not even the priests that are to uphold His ideals and give guidance and succor to His flock. 

Which brings me to the present day: 

 

Brooklyn, New York City

11 PM.

 

The night bit deep into the skin on Frank’s exposed neck. It was winter in Brooklyn, and he smelled snow on the way. He’d been out gathering intel on his next target, a branch of the Gnuccis who were heading back into town to reclaim their territory. Apparently, the Gnuccis thought they had enough hired muscle to brave coming back to New York City. He was going to have to re-educate them and he didn’t mind another chance to rid the world of more scumbags. Hell, they were even coming to him, making it all the more convenient for Frank. He wouldn’t even have to travel. Just meticulously plan the mission, take note of the number of men, stock up on weapons and ammo, then shoot to kill. 

He walked his way through the soulless streets of the morally rotten city, back to his lair. Every step was ponderous yet surprisingly light. Frank moved quickly, especially for a man of his size, in his weathered trench coat. Catching an odd movement out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a teenager try to hang himself. Frank needed to hurry if he wanted to save a life, which wasn’t normally in his job description. He took a knife and threw it with enough force and precision to cut the rope. Again, that kind of knife throwing wasn’t something he did on a regular basis..he just did it out of necessity. The boy hit the cement like a bag of potatoes, and it was a good thing he was no more than four feet in the air. 

The kid couldn’t be more than fourteen, Frank thought. He examined the unconscious boy at his feet, then knelt down to take vitals. There was a rope burn across the neck, consistent with self hanging. Didn’t break his neck. He noticed the how strong the pulse beat as if he were determined to live. Frank took note of how his eyes rolled under his eyelids. In Frank’s professional opinion, the kid would pull through. After the kid woke up, then Frank would ask him questions. Such as why he tried to kill himself in the alley near the cathedral. 

The Punisher lifted the tousled tow headed boy and took him to a place where the boy could recover in warmth. It wasn’t his lair, but a nearby flophouse. He knew the owner, who was grateful Frank killed street scum, and the man let the vigilante use the janitor’s room. 

It bothered him that a young man tried to off himself and no one but Frank helped him. It wasn’t his job to do this, it should have been an ordinary citizen. /The city is dark and rife with corruption, full of people who simply don’t give a fuck about anyone other than themselves./ 

A startled gasp filled the room as the rescued teenager came back to the land of the living to feel the heavy eyes of the Punisher inexorably bore into him, drilling into his soul to learn what the old man wanted to know.

 

*****

 

"I didn't do anything wrong, man. Please don't kill me." The words came out with a harsh edge to them, possibly because of the attempted hanging. The kid recognized the big man right away, as light from the streetlamp made the skull on Frank's shirt startlingly white. White like the priest's robes. White like innocence. 

"I'm not here to kill you, but I want to know why you tried to hang yourself. Near a church." The Punisher tossed the kid a bottle of water to ease his throat. He took a seat on a chair that seemed to have seen better days, an ominous creak filled the room. The kid wouldn't be surprised if the chair gave way underneath the vigilante's weight. What did he weigh? Three hundred pounds of muscle? The big man crossed his arms and that obscured the skull enough to give the boy a chance to calm down. 

The Punisher said, as he saw the teen was reticent to start. "Your name? I've heard that's a good place to begin." 

"My name's Marc Simpson and ..." Marc faltered with the steady gaze of Frank on him. What if he told and the Punisher found him guilty? Like when the priest said this was all Marc's fault and that if he ever talked to an adult about what happened in the confessional that Marc would be go to hell. Marc didn't want to be touched by the Father anymore and if he was going to hell anyway, he decided he wanted to go there sooner than later. Just no...MORE. He thought he wanted to die, but now he wasn’t so sure about that. "I... don't think... ...Listen, Punisher, I did something wrong and that's why ...I'm bad. I'M tempted a..." 

Frank's eyes narrowed and suddenly the gun in his underarm holster jabbed him in the armpit. His instinct was telling him the kid wasn't bullshitting, he had learned to decipher body language, and a cold rage began to spread in his mind. He hadn't felt that fury in some time, and he knew more than a few people would lose their lives because of what happened to this kid But most of all, he hated those who used their positions of power and trust to take advantage of other people. 

“He told me that I’d go directly to hell for telling anyone. I just didn’t want him anywhere near me, so I thought if I’m going to hell, I’d rather go there now.” Marc’s blue eyes studied him. The Punisher was as scary as the Daily Bugle said, maybe even more so, because the man had at least a few working brain cells. He’d always thought Marines were rather lacking in the intelligence department. Marc saw a bright glimmer of a mind capable of constructing . “But I don’t want to die. Are you going to shoot me?” 

“Don’t be stupid. You didn’t ask for it, regardless of what that fuck says. How long?” 

Marc was stumped. How long? How long what? “Oh...for years. I can’t remember how old I was when it started, but around six. It wasn’t continuous. Off and on.” 

Frank did not like the sound of that, because it indicated that the pedophile had more victims that he ‘visited’ in the confessional. Yes, he decided, there would be blood spilt. A lot of it. To him, it didn’t make a difference that a priest did this, who was just another piece of shit that deserved punishment. 

The man leaned forward to tell Marc, “This is what you’re going to do. Go home. Tell your parents what happened. Go talk to your school counselor. ” He stood up and gestured for Marc to follow him. It was time for the kid to leave. He heard enough information to assure himself that this punishment had been a long time in coming. He needed to head back to his lair and plan out this mission, making sure to equip plenty of ammo and guns. Do some research on the layout of the church, and talk to a priest he had been in seminary with until Frank dropped out. 

He nodded at the owner and tossed him a twenty, from the depths of his trench coat. It fluttered in the air until it came to rest on the desk before the motel owner. “Call this kid a cab. It’s too goddamned late for him to be in this neighborhood.” Especially with the hookers out in force tonight, he thought, as he watched a car pull away from the curb after a trashy dressed woman jumped inside. 

“Yes sir.” The owner said. Yeah, Frank had helped clean up this part of Brooklyn...except for the prostitutes, who made up a good deal of his clientele. He dialed the phone and kept the impressionable fourteen year old from staring out the window at the women who plied their trade. 

Marc turned, wanting to thank Frank for saving his life, but the man had already left. 

The hotel owner shrugged. “He’s good at that. C’mon, kid. Your cab is here.”

 

****

 

Father Peter DiMaggio finished with assisting Enrico Gnucci as they counted out the money. He had connections with the Italian branch of the Gnucci family--who had wanted to reclaim their territory-- and they were working on not only laundering their dirty money, but also helping them establish citizenship here. They had devised a way to be virtually undetected, using many different avenues to obtain citizenship here and regain the power they had lost after the Punisher decimated the American branch of the Gnuccis. Some of those avenues were even legal. 

In return for his financial and social assistance, their Consigliere made whatever little problems of his that dared to rear their heads....simply disappear. No fuss. No blood on the good Father's hands. Besides, he was able to intimidate most of the little farts into staying quiet. Promises of hell did wonders, even in this day and age of the ever encroaching threat of atheism. 

He sneered at the thought of the children. Like most people of his particular ....problem, some would say fatal disease, he did it for the feeling of complete power. He liked having the power to make people fear him, gave him some peace at the end of the day. He took some pride in his priestly calling, knowing that with but a few carefully placed words, he could make the faithful weep in the confessional. Mostly over a thought or deed that he thought didn't even merit worrying over. 

/Some people just want to feel the cut of the 'whip' into their back. They want to feel horrible. It's my job to make them feel bad, and give them a chance at salvation./ 

It was safe to say that the good Father didn't believe in God; he had given up that thought a long time ago when he was a lad, crying out to him for help from when... Never mind. That happened forty years ago. It was his time to have the power, to be in control, to inflict on others what had been done to him. 

If he were to be honest with himself, he was just in this profession for the ...intangible perks because being a priest didn't pay that well. Not with the years he spent in seminary, getting a PhD in Theology. He took a deep breath as he put what he was working on aside and pondered which of his children he'd visit next. 

/Marc? No. He’s too old, old enough to start talking. Better leave him alone now. Maybe have Enrico arrange an accident. Yes, that would be best./ Peter massaged his temples, made ill by his thoughts, but not quite sickened enough to stop. He couldn’t. This was a compulsion, driving him to do ungodly things. He liked doing what he did, but at the same time...part of him held a high degree of disgust. 

He rose from his desk, moving swiftly in his black frock. He swept down the impeccably clean hallways of his rectory, out a side door, and into the courtyard. He headed toward his room, a quiet sanctuary from the hectic mess that was his life. Father Peter knew what he needed, he needed to punish himself, to still the chaos that whirled in his mind. He needed to practise mortification of the flesh. He closed the heavy oak door and shoved the steel lock into place. He sighed, feeling secure that he was, indeed, alone. He didn’t bother glancing around. 

Father Peter removed his garb, and kicked the cloth aside. He stood in the cold air, dressed in modest boxers. He found a whip, saved only for himself, in his nightstand. He fumbled with the smooth leather. He cracked his whip, and it made a sharp noise. /A good noise./ He thought to himself. 

He whipped himself, across the belly and legs, until welts rose up on his skin, painful and raw. He cried out a few times in anguished joy, both loving and hating the hurt that he caused himself. Mortification of the flesh, purifying his body of sins.

The older man felt the slick, cold metal of a gun against his neck. “Hmmm. I should make you whip yourself until you bleed and confess to everything that you have done to the children entrusted to your care.”

 

****

 

The priest shuddered. The voice was heavy, full of dread and doom. The voice of his judge, jury and executioner. Or maybe it was his conscious brought to life, the part of him who hated what he did and wanted nothing more to stop. "Who...who are you?"

The barrel of the gun poked him even harder in the back of the neck. "I think you can guess. " Frank said, darkly. Tempted though he was just to shoot the old bugger in the back of the head, execution style, he had something better and more painful in mind. A bullet was just too easy of a way for him to leave this world. He didn't have enough faith to believe there was a hell, the passing of life was a black nothingness that enveloped people like the endless dark of space. At least, that was what Frank hoped. The absence of life meant the absence of pain. 

The Punisher put his booted foot on the priest's ass and gave him a good kick, sending a flurry of black robes to the floor. The Father landed with a thunk but managed to glance up to see a stark white skull. Then the immense shape of the man appeared in sharp relief against the wall. "It's ..you." 

“Who did you think I was, Jesus? Sorry to break it to you, but Jesus died. ” Frank muttered. His finger touched the trigger, a hair’s breadth from pulling it. Then he holstered his 1911, the weight of the gun reassuring in a crazy world. He saw the look of relief and puzzlement flash in the priest’s eyes. “I wouldn’t be relieved if I were you. I don’t care if you’re a man of God, I know what you did to that boy and you’re going to pay him back in blood. And for all the others that you sinned against. I know there were others because men like you can’t help but be predators. We’re going to have a little talk.” 

Father DiMaggio ran a hand across his brow, sweat gleamed briefly like stars. “Then what is your intention here tonight, my son? Have you come for absolution for your own sins?” Father DiMaggio thought he could appeal to whatever remained of a good Catholic inside Frank. 

“Don’t call me that. Your son.’” Frank spat out those last two words. . “I know about Marc. You know about what I do. That’s why I’m here.” He grimaced in revulsion; the priest shivered like a worm in those robes that were supposed to represent holy authority and love. This man tainted innocence. 

“I did it for...” 

“Don’t give me that shit, Father.” The Punisher grabbed him roughly and threw him over to the plain, cheap phone that looked like it came from a dollar store. It rested on a nightstand that had seen better days, oh, roughly about a hundred years ago. Worn and tired, it reminded Frank much of the priest who had now turned visibly grey, like cremated ashes. He changed his mind about keeping the priest alive. The man was dangerous and cunning; the Punisher could see the vileness in the Father’s eyes. He withdrew the 1911 and took aim at the crumpled priest. 

/I am in serious trouble I am in serious trouble I am in serious trouble I am in serious trouble/ was the solitary hymn in the corrupted priest’s mind. It rang through his veins, making his adrenaline surge. His mind whispered to say anything that might prolong his life until the Gnuccis came for their weekly ‘confessional’. While the Punisher and those greasy knuckleheads killed each other, the priest would be able to make good an escape. Then put in for a transfer to the Vatican. 

“If you kill me now, I can’t tell you about the young woman deep in the Church’s cellar.” The priest felt the Punisher’s eyes go predator bright. 

“Where is she?”

 

****

Rogue dreams: 

She sat at the end of the dock, kicking her feet into the cool water. Her fingers tickled the top of the pond and she watched the sun reflect off of it, refracting into many shards of light. The water felt good, felt refreshing, against the humid heat of the day. The young girl watched as two birds flew by, engaged in a courtship flight and singing their song of love. In her youthful innocence, she reveled in the beauty and wonder of what life had to offer. 

She often came here to escape the yelling and fighting between her mother and stepfather, her eight-year old mind unable to understand why they fought so. Their fights usually ended up with her stepfather dragging her into the debacle, either emotionally or physically. Her mind drifted back a few hours to go over what happened in an effort to make sense of what happened.

The girl remembered what he said earlier that day, right before she came here, his brutish looks becoming even more sullen. ~Your daughter is good fer nothin'–can' even wash the dishes right. Good fer NOTHIN!~

Her mama had replied, feisty as a badger, her own voice rising several octaves. ~She's only eight, for christsake. Lorelai is jus' a child! How much do you `xpect her to do? At least she tries!~ 

He grunted. ~Not hard enough, Charlene. That girl of yours needs discipline.~ He finished off his bottle of beer. His fourth, by Lorelai's count. She feared him most after he had a six-pack of beer; he was what her mama called a mean drunk. She trembled as she hid in her favorite hiding place, behind the couch. ~Woman, get me another beer. Now!~

~Curtis Leroy Williams, Ah think you've had quite enough. `Sides, you're almost out. And we have jus' enough money to last `til next Friday; Ah won' be wastin' it on your booze. Ah've got a daughter to feed. ~ Lorelai watched as her petite mama stood up to the hulking brute and saw him hit her with a force that knocked her mother to the floor. Blood poured from the woman's nose, staining the gray carpet with crimson blooms. 

She tore out from her hiding space. ~Mama, are ya okay?~ Lorelai knelt by her mother's still form, tears running down her face. Lorelai hovered over her mother and hoped that she was all right. Prayed that her mother still lived. 

~Lorelai, please leave the house while Curtis and Ah have... a conversation. Please, jus' do it an' don' ask questions.~ Charlene's delicate face started to blossom with vivid hues of purple and blue. She hated that her young daughter saw any of this altercation; God knew how emotionally scarred Lorelai must be already. Charlene believed in her heart that she let her daughter down because she was unable to protect her in so many ways. She regretted subjecting Lorelai to Curtis's brutality and drunkenness. Regretted marrying him. ~Leave, Lorelai! No matter what happens, Lorelai, remember that

Ah love ya.~ 

~Love ya, too.~ Lorelai bolted out of the house and toward her safe abode, by the creek. 

When the sun started to set, Lorelai decided it might be safe enough to venture near the house. She snuck closer to the door, timidly peeking over the windowsill. Her mother was crying while her step- father continued to yell at her. 

Their discordant arguments always wounded her deeply, down to her soul. She wanted to confide to her mother what he liked to do to her in private–she knew that it wasn't right no matter what HE said. But Lorelai was afraid he'd hurt both her and her mother so she kept her mouth shut. Perhaps wisely. She was about to come in when Charlene pulled out the old sawed off shotgun from the closet. Charlene discerned, beforehand, that he had his shotgun loaded at all times. ~Curtis, Ah'm not gonna let you hurt mah daughter or me anymore. Ah have seen what you done to mah baby. And Ah can' take no more!~ Charlene pulled the trigger and the impact of the discharge took Curtis directly in the chest. 

Lorelai would remember the shock on his florid face as he registered the fact that he was going to die. She watched as his body fought to reject the inevitable truth. When his death throes came upon him, she started to cry. Out of relief or sadness, she couldn't tell. 

The young girl went in, despite the admonition given. Her mother was crumpled on the floor, holding onto the shotgun as if it were the last lifesaver on Earth. ~Lorelai, come here. Don' know when the police will get here but Ah wanted you to have this.~ She took off a gold locket and placed it around Lorelai's neck. ~It has the only picture of your true father in it. God, Ah loved that charmin' rogue.~

Lorelai opened it and glanced at a face not so different than hers. Just a more masculine one. She closed it and looked at her mother's beloved, battered face. ~Mama, does it hurt to love?~ 

~Yeah, it does. Promise me you'll nevah let anyone get close enough to hurt ya. Learn from mah mistakes. Don' trust men, `specially charmin' ones. Ah think if your father had lived long `nough and not died in that brawl... It might have worked. But don' count on it.~ Charlene hugged her hard. 

~Ah promise, Mama. ~ They heard sirens coming up the drive and Charlene knew the cops were going to try to take her. She would never give herself up. 

~Go outside and don' come back inside. Ah mean it.~ Charlene knew it would be the last time she'd ever see her daughter. ~Ah love ya.~ 

Lorelai frowned; something was wrong with her mother. ~Love ya.~ 

She stepped out of the house, immediately placed into the backseat of a cop's car. A female officer, tall and ice-blonde, gave her a teddy bear, to comfort her. ~We'll try to make sure your mother's all right.~ Her partner, a man, attempted to calm Charlene. 

Just then, her mother raised the shotgun and fired toward the officers. ~Ah can' live Curtis' blood on mah hands but Ah won' have mah daughter visit me in prison.~ The shell entered the female cop's leg. She screamed, ignoring her injury, and drew her own gun, firing at Charlene. The male police officer followed suit, placing his body before the car, protecting Lorelai. 

~MAMA!!!!~ Lorelai pounded on the window of the car. The first bullet entered Charlene's head , blood and gray matter exploding out the back of her skull. ~NOOOOO!~ At that point, Lorelai lost conscious–the whole day too much for her to take.

In her small box, Rogue started screaming, the pain of all those long-forgotten memories rising to the surface. Her screams were the sound of soul-tearing agony.

 

******

 

Bury all your secrets in my skin

Come away with innocence, and leave me with my sins

The air around me still feels like a cage

And love is just a camouflage for what resembles rage again...

\--Slipknot, Snuff Lyrics by Corey Taylor

 

The priest fervently hoped that his cohorts would show up before the Punisher could release the troubled young woman. He knew that she was called a mutant. People--real people-- called her kind at best a mistake and a demon at worst. From what the Father was told, her so called talent was to steal a person’s memory and essence. After talking to her, he truly believed she could steal souls, and that made her a demon to him. /Maybe others were simply misguided. They thought they could use her, steal bank account information, even kill others. I hope they decide to kill her; she’s too dangerous to keep around./ 

She fought them tooth and nail. Her fury was exactly why she was currently locked up in a small box, no bigger than a coffin. Enrico Gnucci told Rogue that she would stay in there until she did agree to cooperate with their plans. So far, no luck, but she had been getting weaker and he knew that she would give in sooner rather than later. 

The Father heard Frank’s question and analyzed it. He knew exactly what to say. “She’s in a small room just off the cellar…” He found himself in the air, feet scrambling for solid purchase, and the Punisher thrust him into the hall. Long, cold and deserted. The other priests were amongst the parish community tonight, helping distribute groceries to the most vulnerable. That was why the rectory, usually bustling with measured activity, seemed deserted. The priest caught a glance of the clock on the wall. 5:30. Thirty more minutes before his company would show up and--hopefully--kill this asshole. 

“Take me there. One word, one misstep….well, if I were you, I’d hurry up before I think of something creative to speed you up.” The Punisher’s voice echoed the calmness of a storm before the full fury hit. 

So the priest led him down the hallway and toward a spiral staircase, which gave a little under Frank’s weight but didn’t cave. His broad shoulders barely fit as they paralleled the width of the stairs. The dark robes ahead of him gracefully mirrored the priest’s movements, and the priest risked a glance back at him. The burning cold of Castle’s blue eyes spurred him on and he kept quiet. 

The priest stopped, pulled a keychain out and pointed toward the door. “She’s in ...there. Look, she’s…” He paused. He didn’t want to let Frank know that Rogue was a mutant and dangerous because, with any luck, she’d kill him. 

Frank poked him in the neck with the cold barrel of the gun. “She’s what?” 

He gulped. “She’s…generally…out of it. I don’t know what she’s been given, but it knocks her out.” 

Frank felt his body harden and tense with anger. He wondered why she was kept doped up, but figured he’d keep his suppositions to himself for the time being. “You first, God boy.” He told the priest to enter the room and unlock the box that held the young woman. 

She lay slumped in the box, green eyes dulled like unpolished jade. Most people would thought her to have been a lovely woman, except for that slack of expression. Her skin was pale and Frank, with a clinical detachment, leaned over to test for a pulse. It was habit more than anything that made him do it. The woman did not look well; she had the glaze of someone on drugs. And somehow, he didn’t think it was her doing. People were going to pay. 

As soon as his skin touched hers, he felt as if his testicles were being pulled out of his body by way of his nostrils. He sagged to his knees as the pain receded and numbness took over. He didn’t know how to describe what he was experiencing, other than to say what he was, the essence of who he was, seemed to be slipping away. 

He watched as the woman jerked into some form of alertness. Her eyes went wide, turned from green to glacier-blue, and screamed, “Maria!” Those hands of hers, slender, turned into talons as she scratched at her shirt. Nails clawed, leaving red marks above her t-shirt. /Where I was shot./ He realized that she was reliving his memories somehow and that the pain she was going through was his fault, not hers. /Poor girl./ He did not have the time or energy to wonder how this was happening. Time enough later for that, he hoped. Frank was unable to feel anything. Not pain, nor anger, or happiness. Just a soft blanket of utter greyness, lost in blissful apathy. 

Though he was barely conscious, he figured out this was why someone must have wanted her. Just for her ability to siphon memories, this young woman would make a powerful weapon. He watched as she fell to the floor—hard. If he were able, sympathy for her would have shot through him. He knew she was caught in the rictus of his memories. 

“HIS BRAINS CAME OUT IN MY HANDS!!!” Rogue screamed with an agony that Frank remembered, but couldn’t feel. Her heels dug into the floor and she arched her back, fighting past pain. She writhed on the floor, then went still. Her chest rose and fell with harsh cries. “Lisa, Maria. Frankie…failed you.” She cried like that for several minutes, lost and confused in a torrent of personal hell. 

Frank’s strength ran out and he fell against the wall. He took a quick appraisal of everything at his disposal. /Still semi-upright, that’s good. Unable to lift hand to get to my gun, not so good. I’m up shit creek./ 

Rogue’s eyes took in the small room and she sat up, albeit shakily. She still didn’t know who she was, still absorbing what memories and skills she received from Frank Castle. She, in other words, thought she was Frank. “Maria?” She croaked. Rogue looked down at her chest, saw that she had a womanly form. Then she noticed who she was supposed to be sitting across from her. 

It all snapped into place for her. Who she was. “Ah’m Rogue.” She said, hesitantly. “Did you…you touch me?” She already knew the answer, but wanted to know the specifics.

“I did.” He said, simply. “You seemed ill.” 

She scooted closer to him. Her eyes retained the Artic blue of his. “Ah am sorry. Didn’t mean ta hurt ya. Ah can’t control mah power.” Somehow, it was urgent for her to tell him that. She felt as if she had violated his privacy, violated his person, and she hated it. 

Rogue’s voice was sultry like aged molasses. Her concern for him showed in how she checked him over. She continued to talk to him. “You’ll be ok. You didn’t touch me long enough for me to do real damage to you.” 

The Punisher kept an eye on her. His opinion of the situation was that the onus lay on him, not her. Or rather, the blame lay on the priest. Speaking of the priest, Frank’s sharp gaze caught him slinking out of the room.”Rogue, stop him!” He barked as she sprang to her feet. She saw, as he did a moment or two before, that the good Father Peter planned to slip out of the room and lock the door. He succeeded. Rogue pounded on the door. 

“Guess what, Punisher,” Father Peter DiMaggio called at him through the door. His words were barely audible, but they both heard him. “The Gnuccis are on their way. I’m going to tell them about you and I should get a hefty bonus. You and the demon bitch are going to die.” They heard the soft patter of his feet as he ran away, ostensibly to relay the news.

*** 

Enrico Gnucci was a man of urbane taste and impeccable politeness. He took pride in being a civilized gangster, and avoided killing when extortion and bribery would work. Killing was messy work and all too often, he found, unnecessary with ordinary people. They weren’t part of the ‘life’, so he made a concerted effort to keep them out of it. It just kept his life tidier; Enrico did not do this out of the goodness of his heart. He also did not allow the killing of children. That was for the peace of his soul. 

Women, he knew, could be as dangerous as men. Perhaps some women more so. For example, there was a woman named Raven who was legendary for her duplicity, fighting ability and being able to disappear at a moment’s notice. In fact, Raven was the person who gave his current acquisition to him. 

Rogue. 

Despite the trouble Rogue gave, Enrico still got enough information to make her extremely valuable and he was loathe to part with her. Rogue possessed her own danger; not only her abilities, but it was getting hard to contain her.

Fellow gangsters, however, sometimes had to be permanently eliminated. He reasoned their deaths by the sheer fact that they knew what they were getting into by becoming a made man. He felt no guilt about ordering their deaths; it was simply business and something he took no pleasure from. 

He grimaced when he noticed a snag in his silk suit. Enrico doubted anyone would notice such a small imperfection, but it would bother him until he could get changed. He always had an eye on the small things because it was the small things that made the big picture. Enrico’s father had encouraged this trait because he knew it could only help his son when he became Godfather. 

When the priest called, he had been getting into his nondescript car with three of his henchmen. It wasn’t a junk car, just an ordinary Toyota Corolla to be used when he was conducting business. Enrico hated drawing attention to himself with flashy cars, clothes and women. He preferred all those items to have substance, and in the case of women, to have a practical nature. 

“You know who this is. And I know who you are so this had better be good.” Thank God for caller id, Enrico thought. His free hand angrily tapped on his car door’s paneling. He loathed the priest for what he did to certain children. This bit of information he had just obtained because if he had known, Enrico never would have done business with him. He had his principles, after all. Encouraging the victimization of children offended his honor. 

“The Punisher is here, in the girl’s cell. He tried to rescue her, touched her and I locked them both in there.” The priest, although rushed, sounded pleased with himself, as if he were expecting Enrico to richly reward him. 

Enrico would ‘reward’ him, alright, as he made the decision that the priest was to put down, the young woman liquidated, and the whole operation shutdown and forgotten. He’d gotten his money back and then made a tidy profit. There was no reason to keep the girl around, and everything to risk if he did. 

He considered making a profit off the Punisher, selling him to someone who would gladly pay a fortune to have the privilege of killing the vigilante. Enrico was not a stupid man, he made his decisions with a cool logic. Above all, however, Enrico was a pragmatist. Frank Castle was not a man to be kept around. He was far too dangerous. Enrico decided it would be best to kill all three of them then dispose of their bodies in a vat of acid. No fuss, no muss. 

His right hand man, an old friend by the name of Giovanni Sorrentino, drove the car as Enrico made these decisions. Giovanni understood his boss’s need for quiet and kept to himself. Giovanni glanced in the rearview mirror to see that Enrico’s face resembled a calm pool of water. A flash of predator came to the surface of those glittery dark brown eyes, sharp as a shark’s tooth. 

Giovanni remembered an incident back in Italy, when they were youths, not quite men, but just out of boyhood. Both of them grew up in the city of Salerno, a city of sun kissed grace and crystal blue waters. Enrico’s beautiful sister, Isabel, had been seeing a boy of a lesser family, and their father had not been pleased. 

So Giovanni and Enrico headed out to discourage the young man, as he was not suitable as a potential husband. As Giovanni recalled, Enrico tried to use other methods to dissuade the suitor, but the idiot sneered. Some words were spoken and a gun was used: the young man was not seen again. Isabel never said anything, but from then on, looked at her brother with veiled fear and suspicion. Due to familial pressure, Isabel settled down with a son of a respectable banker and was continuing to live the life of a financially well cared for wife and mother. By all accounts, the marriage was a good one and they grew to love each other. More importantly, the Gnucci family was happy because they had made a good connection to the banking industry due to her marriage. 

Enrico said to one of the other men. “Call Sal. We need to straighten house at the Church. Tell him to bring at least ten men and make sure they are armed to the teeth. Arrange for a cleaning crew to be there in an hour.” He imparted the directions and some final instructions to the lackey, then quietly awaited for their impending arrival. 

Rogue sighed. “Ah’m really sorry about this.” She searched him for anything that she could use to defend herself with and came up with a Ka-Bar knife and two Colt 1911 handguns. Frank, though conscious, was still not ready to put up much of fight. That left their defense up to her. 

/Grind them to dust. Grind them until there is nothing left./ Frank’s voice echoed in her head. 

Frank regarded her with a world weary glance. Rogue seemed like a new soldier on the battlefield, one that hadn’t yet been bloodied or drawn blood. The remnants of the Marine captain in him said, “The more you apologize, the less time you have to prepare. Stop fucking around and get on with it.” 

Rogue glanced at him in surprise. It felt disconcerting to hear him speak both aloud and in her head. “You’re right. Ah’m wastin’ time moanin’ and groanin’. “She pressed one of the 1911’s into his hand and grabbed both the Ka-Bar and took up the other gun. She looked around the small room. “Ah’m gonna have to be careful shootin’ this gun in here?” 

He nodded. Guns were loud, even with suppressors, and the noise would probably make their ears ring. “I wouldn’t advise it but if you have to save our lives, shoot to kill. Don’t shoot to maim.”

“Better to be deaf than dead.” Rogue said as she tried to draw upon her inner fortitude to get this ‘thing’ done. /The slightest misstep not only means mah death, but Frank’s as well. No pressure. No pressure at all./ 

She remained unsure whether or not, though, that she would be able to pull the trigger on anyone. Rogue thought of her brief time here, with the drugs forced into her, very little food, being hauled out of her small room for an occasional ice cold shower, and also having skin to skin contact against her will. She was made, basically, a slave for these people and she resented it. Anger blossomed in her heart and she gripped the knife in her hand, turning her knuckles white with rage.

/These aren’t people. These are animals who just fuck people’s lives up for their own god damned profit. They kill innocent people, they feed off of the lifeblood of good people. They don’t deserve to live./ The mental voice sounded like a combination of both her and Frank. Both were tinged with the primal fury of pure rage. 

Rogue drew upon that well of anger to become stronger, to become ready to deal with what could well be a bloodbath. She stood up, trembling at first, but steadying as she took a deep breath. She went over to the door and leaned against the wall, just out of sight and ready to spring into action when the door was opened.

****

Enrico gathered his men. “Giovanni, take four men and make for the basement. Kill the man first, then the girl. Make it nice and clean for her, give her the mercy of a good death, since she didn’t have a good life.” He paused, then withdrew a cigar from his pocket. “We’ll be going after the priest. He’s a liability now. I’ll personally take care of him.” Enrico lit the cigar and took in the smoke while he thought about the girl and the sad life she led. His mind also wandered to Raven, the woman in blue. So mysterious. So dangerous.

Giovanni nodded. As a good Catholic, he had unease over the killing of the Father, but after Enrico told him about his predilections, Giovanni saw the wisdom of it. The man deserved it, if even half of what was say ended up true. He wondered how someone like that ended up in a position of power and decided that Peter DiMaggio simply was an opportunistic asshole who preyed on the most vulnerable and that he became a priest just for that very reason. 

For access to victims. Surely God would forgive them the death of an errant priest, who was more concerned with satisfying unholy desires. 

“Giovanni, call me on the cell phone if the situation doesn’t feel right. Remember to give the girl an easy death.” Then Enrico rounded up the others to go after the priest. He wanted this distasteful business put to rest. 

Giovanni and his men entered the hallway that led to the cellar where the girl was being kept. Religious imagery hung on the walls, adding to the somber mood they were all in. Giovanni noted to himself that Enrico had some sympathy for the girl. He also wondered if it was justified. He’d seen her kill through touch and it looked quite excruciating. 

As to the Punisher, he would be lying if he didn’t say he anticipated and looked forward to putting an end to the vigilante. Too many of their people had died at his hand. Giovanni was deeply offended because Frank had Italian blood, so he considered him a traitor. /He’d have made a helluva member of the Family./ They went down a staircase and Giovanni knew they were close. The men were talking in excited murmurs, each of them excited to get their hands on the Punisher. They knew the Gnuccis would be feared and respected once it went out they were the ones responsible for the death of the Punisher. 

Giovanni had a spare key for this room. He fumbled for it in his pocket, like a drunk searching for his beer. The tarnished bronze key slid into place and he opened the door carefully. The door flowed to him and he had a rare glimpse of the Punisher on the floor. The huge man reclined against the wall, his skin remained a whiter shade of pale. He began to say, “Where’s the girl…” 

The knife sliced through Giovanni’s throat and sprayed over Rogue with a crimson blanket. The arterial droplets stood in alarming contrast to her unnaturally white complexion. She shoved the dying man into his companions with a snarl. “I’m going to kill you all, you fuckers. You will pay for what you did to me and to the others.” She then shot him in the face and felt the reverberating kick of the gun echo in her body. Rogue took quick aim and after a quick flash of fire, another bullet flew through the air to lodge in the nearest eye. The man went down and she gave him another round. Blood pooled under him. 

/How many bullets does this gun have? Eight? So that means Ah have six left in the clip./ Rogue thought as she watched the three remaining men gape in horror, frozen in the grip of not knowing what to do next. One of them lunged at her, a man with dirty brown hair and even dirtier eyes. She managed to evade him, but her bare foot slipped on the blood and she landed on the floor with a loud moan. The gun skittered from her hand and he was on her in an instant, hands wrapped around her throat.

The knife remained in her other hand and she managed to stab him in the side, a kidney shot. Blood streamed over her, an unwanted torrent. A glance at the two other assholes told her that they were going to shoot. In fact, she saw them take out their hand guns and aim at her. Rogue just barely managed to get the man off of her to act as a shield. He screamed and shuddered as his body took the bullets of his cohorts. Rogue knew she was fortunate that none of the ammo tore through him and into her.

Rogue’s green eyes widened as she watched the life fade from her human shield. A tremor and what animated him was gone, a wisp disappearing into the ether. His death was immediate and shockingly intimate. 

A couple of loud shots brought Rogue back from her stupor, a couple of wet thumps hit the wall, to slide on the floor. Glassy expressions that would greet the ‘cleaning crew’ in an hour or so. Rogue, gladdened at their deaths, then felt something large and black drape itself around her. Big hands lifted her to her feet. She looked up to see Frank, tall and resolute. She’d never been so glad to see someone in her life.

“You did good. You survived.” He said and appeared to contemplate something, then a phone rang. One of the dead men’s’ cell phones, in fact. Frank picked it up, read the caller id which said “E. GNUCCI”, and answered it.

His voice, gravelly and serious, sent shivers through Rogue. She knew he meant what he was going to say, somehow knew what he was going to say. “I killed your men and I am going to kill you.” And at this point, she wasn’t inclined to chime in and say that she helped. Killing those ass munches wasn’t something to be proud of. It was a necessary thing, but not to be thought of as an accomplishment. She did what she had to so that they both could survive.

She leaned over to pick up her borrowed gun and also to yank the Ka-Bar out of the side of her deceased assailant. For a second, she thought it was stuck on a rib, but she managed to pull it out. She had a horrible and absurd image of now being the King of England, but thrust that ludicrous musing aside. When she looked for him, the large man was gone.

“Goddamn it, Castle.” She muttered, then went to find him.

*****

Enrico and his four men had encountered the priest in the rectory. Enrico instructed one of them to punch the priest in the face, sending him reeling over a bench in a splash of white robes. He smirked at the older man, collapsed on the hard wood.

“But …I got you the Punisher. I deserve a reward.” The Father stuttered. 

Enrico kicked him in the head, teeth scattered like white rats. “And I’m going to give it to you. Just not the reward you think you’re going to get. Raphael, tie him up. I need to call Giovanni and see how he’s doing. He should be done by now.”

When he heard the Punisher’s voice, he turned pale. With a click, he turned off the phone. “Giovanni failed. We know what that means. Shoot to kill.”

*****

Frank took the stairs at a rapid clip, skipping two or three at a time. He knew he had to hurry if he wanted to catch the real boss and his henchmen. He figured Rogue would be safer downstairs and that she had done enough. She didn’t need to see just how he’d kill Enrico and then the priest, if he could manage to get his hands on him. 

/I know what I’ll do with the good Father. / He thought grimly. /If I had more time with Enrico, I’d make an example out of him, but this is his lucky day. I’ll make it quick. /

He caught two of Enrico’s hapless henchmen in the hall, sent to look for him. Frank wanted to make this as quiet as possible. Rogue had his knife, but he noticed a rather solid looking cross on the wall. He took it down, crept up behind them and pummeled their skulls into tiny pieces, exposing pulsing brains. Experience told him that they weren’t long for this world.

Satisfied with his work, he silently padded toward the rectory, wondering if Enrico were there. /Large area, hard to sneak up on him. But then, little cover, so it’s a crap shoot./

Every step brought his anger to the fore, every step brought him closer to being full strength. He checked his gun, then dug in his pocket for his extra magazine. He removed the empty one, then slid the full magazine home with a solid click.

A lone man had his back to Frank. Fancy suit, Italian silk and Italian cut. Frank relished the mistakes of his enemies. Made his job easier. It took Frank all of five seconds to snap that fancy Italian neck. Frank carefully lowered him to the ground

He glanced in the rectory. Frank counted two men on their feet and noted with satisfaction that they’d already tied up the priest. /How considerate of them. It’s a late Christmas present./ He became as still as a statue and tried to ascertain if there were more men roaming the halls. The thundering silence told him that those two were all that remains. Frank knew that he had to get this shit done. He could almost sense that ‘reinforcements’ would be here shortly. If that happened, both he and Rogue were screwed.

Like a tiger, he made his move. With a speed that belied his age and size, he leapt over the pews. One of his feet landed squarely on the younger man’s back, sending him face first to meet his destiny. Which happened to be with Frank destroying his spine, then obliterating his neck when Frank used it to cushion his knee when he landed. 

Enrico gasped when he saw the Punisher seem to come out of nowhere, all speed and ferocity. The expression on the man’s face could not be put forth in words. The white skull glared at Enrico from the Punisher’s chest, accusing him of terrible things. Terrifying sprang to mind, but it was a mere fraction of what Enrico felt. This man was a force of nature, truly something to be reckoned with and he pulled out his own gun, a Beretta, and shot at Frank.

A bullet grazed Frank’s arm, a scarlet path on scarred skin, and he managed to avoid being hit by his other shots. Enrico fired until the gun clicked, empty of ammo. Frank grabbed him by his tie and hauled him up to the altar, where the baptismal font was kept. Enrico clawed and hit at Frank on their way up. Frank didn’t even notice those frantic attempts. 

He noted that there was indeed water in the font and with a shove, pushed and held Enrico’s head underwater for about five or so minutes. He held him there until he could be assured no life inhabited the crime boss’s body. Frank checked for a pulse and there was none. He let Enrico go, body draped over the fountain like a macabre drape.

/Now about the priest…/ He turned his attention to the priest, who turned white. Frank saw that a wet stain had spread across his robe. Frank smiled.

Frank brought the priest up to his feet. He glanced at the cross decorating the altar. It was a large, sturdy cross that Frank guessed could probably support the priest’s weight. Frank grabbed some wine red velvet cords on the way up. /Unfortunately, / Frank said to himself, /there aren’t any nails around, but I’ll make do. /

The Punisher was a very resourceful man. He had to be. He learned to make the most of what he had back in ‘Nam, and life as a vigilante reinforced the ‘waste not, want not’ philosophy he acquired as a necessity. He regularly took what he gleaned from the gangsters or other assorted criminals he put down to fuel his vengeance. But Frank would take nothing from the priest but his life.

“You can’t do… you can’t do this to me. You’re a Catholic…and I heard that you were in seminary.” The priest stammered, his face black and blue.

Frank went back in time for a mere instant, remembering being clad in black robes. He believed in God, then, but could never find it in him the ability to forgive. He dropped out of seminary, then met lovely Maria on a bright day. The sun had turned her hair to molten gold. “I’m a bad Catholic. I dropped out because I can’t forgive and that would be a bad trait for a priest to have. But at least I’m not a fucking pedophile.”

Maybe Frank still believed in God, deep inside, but it was a belief stained by pain and sorrow. 

He struck the priest hard enough to daze him, then tied him securely to the silvery cross. Enrico lay at the Father’s feet like a supplicant. Frank leapt down to the floor and stepped back to admire his handiwork. The priest sweated and begged for his life, then began praying frantically to God.

“I have no mercy for you. I’ve wasted enough time.” Frank aimed his gun, shooting at the priest’s feet, then wrists. “In the name of the Father, the Son.”

Another shot hit the Father in the middle of his forehead. A fount of red spilled down and the priest’s body went slack. Frank turned to see Rogue slightly behind him, a thin puff of smoke emerging from the barrel of her gun.

“And the Holy Spirit.” She said, then gave Frank her attention, as if she expected him to object somehow. “Ah deserve mah vengeance. Ah suffered at his hands, too.” Rogue saw Enrico, and strode to him, double tapping him in the back of the skull. The two shots rang sharply through the church.

Frank came up to her, standing by her side. “He was already dead. I killed him.”

“Well, now he’s doubly dead and there’s no doubt.” Rogue’s voice quavered a little. She was cold even though she was draped in his warm coat. Droplets of blood were drying on her face. “Ah can rest easier knowin’ he ain’t comin’ after me. Ah needed to make sure of that, Frank. Can you understand?”

It almost sounded like she was begging for him to understand. “I do.” And he did. He studied her with an intent eye. She had been through some struggles he couldn’t comprehend. Other struggles, he could. She was tough and he wondered if he had somehow changed her in a way that would not be able to be fixed. Not just him, Frank amended, but her experience here in a place that was meant to be holy and a refuge.

“Ah don’ know what to do. Ah have nowhere to go, no one to turn to. Can’t go to the cops. Whatevah is left of the Gnuccis will get me.” Rogue said, her voice wan and plaintive. “Can Ah come home with you? You really are the only person Ah can trust right now. Ah have no money or friends to go to.”

Frank grunted and turned toward her. “I don’t run a home for wayward mutants. I hear there’s a place in Westchester.”

“Fuck mutants. Fuck heroes. Fuck wayward homes.” The vitriol in Rogue’s tone peaked Frank’s interest in the young woman. “Ah’m sorry, but…Ah just can’t. Ah’d tell you why, but not here or in public. Ah ain’t askin’ to permanently move in, but to stay for a day or two while we figure somethin’ else out. Besides, Frankie, can you really see them takin’ me in? Be honest.”

He thought for a moment before saying, “No. I don’t think they would.” In truth, he doubted she’d fit in with the other mutants. There was a haunted and defiant expression to her, one that spoke to him of her deep trauma. Sometimes there was a heavy price to pay for survival, and he knew that Rogue paid for it with part of her humanity. He had paid for it piecemeal by piecemeal both in Vietnam and that sunny day in Central Park. Perhaps it wouldn’t be amiss to keep her with him until he found out just how much she knew about him and how his personality would be affecting her.

He remained unconvinced, however, to the dubious wisdom of having her back at his warehouse apartment. Frank saw with sharp and piercing clarity that Rogue was already down the path of being like Kathryn. A woman used up by the dark part of life. Or worse, he considered, ending up with his fate.

“We need to leave, Frank.” Rogue said. She wanted out of there and to finally feel freedom on her skin and smell the air. She didn’t even care if the smell was of garbage. It would be sweet to her.

He nodded. She was right. But he decided that they weren’t going directly back to his base of operations. Not until he found out everything he could about her past and about why she didn’t care for other mutants. He sensed a story there, and one that was probably quite sordid. He opted to have them go to the motel he was at earlier. He’d grab her some more clothes, she’d take a badly needed shower, and they would be able to get some rest.

He gestured for her to follow him, and they passed into the long cold dark of the street.

He waved down a cab and gestured for her to get in first. Frank gave the cabbie a hundred and told him to keep the change. It remained unspoken that the cabbie would keep his mouth shut. A quick look at Frank’s expression in the back seat confirmed that he should stay silent. Frank stared out the window at the huddled masses of humanity. /They don’t care about anything other than themselves, about what they’ll have for dinner or about their next date. They are completely wrapped up in their own little world. Some of them will have that world smashed by reality and be unable to cope. /

The old man, grizzled by war and nightmares born in flesh, glanced down at Rogue. She was wrapped up in her thoughts, but it was for a good reason. /She’s young enough to be my daughter or granddaughter. / A stab of regret made him wonder what type of person Lisa would be now. Kind? Like Maria? Or would she have been more thoughtful and introverted? He shoved that line of thought aside. All that would accomplish was unproductive pain.

The cab slowed then stopped in front of a motel. Rogue looked at the motel, then shrugged. Anything was better than staying at the church and she knew Frank had his reasons. One of which being that he did not quite trust her and she accepted that. She had to. She couldn’t blame him. He lived a long time in the brutal life he chose for himself. Trust did not come easy, if at all, to a man like Frank.

They went into the motel. Frank talked to the man in a low voice and the motel clerk nodded something and put a key into Frank’s hand. The brassy metal played with the low light. Rogue noted the motel was older but clean. At a curt nod from Frank, she followed him down the narrow hall. Her bare feet trod down the faded carpet and she noticed the quaint and kitschy pictures that lined the walls. She then stared at Frank’s broad back. Frank looked at the key and halted in front of a solid door.

A click of the key presented a room with a large bed in the center. As Rogue entered, she sighed with relief as she saw a bathroom and an adjoining room with another bed in it. Not that she was scared Frank would be untoward, but she found herself grateful for privacy. She decided to take the adjoining room. If someone like the Gnuccis found them here, they’d be forced to fight their way through Frank.

“What size of clothes and shoes do you wear?” Frank asked. Rogue’s wardrobe was woefully inadequate and she definitely needed shoes. Cold cement did not do wonders on feet, even if it were for a mere moment or two. In fact, Rogue needed to be in the shower as soon as possible. He knew Rogue was cold and filthy. The warm water would do her good.

She blinked, then stammered. “Ah wear a size 8 in clothes and about a 7 and a half in shoes.” Rogue didn’t even think about clothes. She possessed nothing but the rags on her and was thankful that Frank considered her needs.

He moved toward the door, his large frame threatening the door. “Good. I’ll bring food back and then we’ll talk. Catch a shower and try to relax. I’ll be asking you some hard questions.” He left and she heard the door click as he locked it.

The shower felt divine as she reveled in the luxury of it. The miniscule bar of soap and small bottles of shampoo were just adequate enough to get clean. She stepped out of the shower and dried off. After wiping the condensation from the mirror, she examined herself. Pale skin and a face just a little thinner than what she was used to. Eyes that had seen a lot. She sighed. There was nothing to be done about that but get on with the business of living.

She wrinkled her nose at the bloodied and now useless pile of clothes. Rogue carefully put them in the garbage basket and washed her hands. /If Ah had Purrell, Ah’d douse mahself in it. / She thought with a hint of alacrity. She combed her mass of hair with a flimsy brush found on the sink. Rogue managed to make her hair more presentable, but mulled the option of cutting it short. /Maybe later. /

She wrapped the towel around her and slid into her room. She flounced down on the bed and turned on the TV. The rambunctious antics of Bart Simpson played out on the screen, followed by Homer chasing him through the house. Rogue smiled, grateful for the humor and to be alive. She fell asleep halfway through the episode, lulled by the feeling of safety and pure warmth.

It was sometime later when she felt the soft thump of objects landing near her. Rogue looked up, eyes heavy and noticed a pile of clothes. “Thank you, Frank.” He shrugged, then closed her door so she could get dressed in peace. She went through the clothes and found a pair of jeans and a tank to slide into. They were a little loose, she noted with a critical eye, but she hoped to gain a little weight. Her hand smoothed over her stomach and she heard a low grumble, a demand for food.

*****

After dinner, which consisted of a healthy salad and a chicken breast, she sat back and tried to gather her thoughts. She knew that Frank was going to grill her or rather let her grill herself. She didn’t like it, but as his essence still rumbled around in her head, understood it. She delayed the inevitable, taking a drink of water, studiously looking at her new tennis shoes.

“You can start anytime.” He had a sense of déjà vu. It had been earlier in the day that he interviewed Marc Simpson, which had, in turn, led him to Rogue. He thought it was a fitting end to the day.

“Well, Ah was born Lorelai Williams, but Ah prefer to be called Rogue.” Rogue began, then told him the rest of her story. She remained resolute. “After mah momma died, Ah was put in the foster care system. No one really wanted me til Ah ended up with a nice family. They were going to adopt me, then mah would be dad touched mah butt. Ah went and got a kitchen knife. Ah was twelve at the time.” She closed her eyes to block out the memory. 

After a few moments, she continued. “Needless to say, given mah background, they believed his story of innocence. However, Ah was removed from that house and put into another foster home. Ah did overhear mah case worker say that she was gonna put me in a ‘juvenile detention’ facility. Ah was scared she meant prison, so Ah ran away.” She paused and got a glass of water. The look on his face was blank, neither betraying anger or sadness. “Knowing what Ah know now, Ah nevah would have pulled a knife on him, but Ah digress.”

She finished drinking and put the glass down with a clink on a nearby end table. “Ah lived by mah wits on the street for about six months. It was then Ah met… a woman who would take me in. Her name’s Mystique and she’s a mutant. A shapeshifter, in fact.” Rogue thought hard. “Of course, she took me in because Ah was a mutant. It certainly wasn’t out of the goodness of her withered black heart. She taught me all sorts of things, like how to take care of her guns and how to use them. Also, she was groomin’ me for somethin’ that Ah wasn’t aware of. Apparently, she wanted me to steal a specific target’s powers. Ah refused, and when Ah refused, she ‘sold’ me to the Gnuccis. That’s how Ah fell in their hands.”

She sighed. “It’s also why Ah just don’t want to be turned loose on the streets. Ah could never be certain if she were behind me. That is, if the rest of the Gnuccis didn’t get me first.” Rogue added, “And as for the cops, Ah’d be shot for resistin’ arrest as soon as Ah turned mahself in. The NYPD killed fifteen mutants last year for just that thing. And no one cared. Could you imagine what would happen if one of them made contact with mah skin? Ah don’t want to be a statistic, Castle.”

Frank sat back in his chair, which creaked under his weight. Rogue made very valid points. The remainder of the Gnuccis would be after her and might hire, or make deals, with other Families to have her killed. As for the police, yes, she was right about the fifteen mutants dead this year. Probably right about getting shot, too. The Punisher had followed those stories and his gut told him that he might be making visits to some cops this year. It wasn’t that he was for mutant rights as much as he simply hated corruption in the clergy and law enforcement as much as he hated organized crime. He’d heard of Mystique, a truly dangerous criminal and some would say, terrorist for mutant causes.

“Did you ever participate in Mystique’s activities?” He asked, blue eyes on her. “I know she’s active in a group called the Brotherhood.” /Of Mutant Assholes. / He muttered to himself.

“No. Well, except for cleanin’ her guns and stuff. Ah didn’t do anything to hurt someone. Ah don’t like to cause pain.” 

“That brings me to another question. Did you like killing those men at the church?” The point of that question was to see if he might need to keep a tight rein on her. He thought he had seen stirrings of ice blue in her eyes.

Rogue shook her head. “No. Ah didn’t like it. Ah meant it when Ah said that Ah don’t like to cause pain. But, Ah’m not sad they’re dead. Some people don’t deserve to live.”

He pondered what he’d do with Rogue. Any way he examined her problem, she was screwed royally. Unless she came with him. Rogue was a troubled, but basically decent, young woman. /Life had given her a hard hand. /

“What makes you think you’d be safer with me? All I do is get people close to me killed.” Frank shot the question to her.

“And everyone Ah touch dies. “Rogue retorted. “Ah know Ah’m a target hangin’ out with you, nor do Ah care. Frank, Ah have nothin’ else goin’ on in my life. Ah ain’t going back to Mystique. Ah sure as hell ain’t gonna join up with a bunch of mutants. Let me help you out. Ah can gather information for you and Ah can go places you can’t. Let me make something useful out of mah life. Plus, you can use me as bait to get the rest of the stupid Gnuccis. Or maybe go after Mystique.” 

He doubted Rogue would ever have a normal life. She’d seen too much and then there was her power, which only served to isolate her. “Ok, but we go about problems my way. When I say to do something, you better do it.”

She smiled. “Deal.”


End file.
